


You Arrive Along With The Sun

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, heart ache
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-11-19 16:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11317284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Elizabeth Keen is aware of the pain he suffered through.





	1. There's A Fire In Your Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I missed you.”  
> You toss it to him,  
> unexpected,  
> but knowing he has,  
> animal reflexes to,  
> catch it. It’s half a joke,  
> half something else  
> and the way he looks at you,  
> means you both aren’t  
> ready to talk about it.”

He stands above the cot, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of his lips, eyes creased, a single finger stretched out to the tiny grasp of the infant girl that coos back at him. There is something, something _delightful_ , in the green depths of his eyes, something that tugs and pulls at her chest, makes her lips part in awe. Agnes is _enthralled_ with him.

It is absolutely no surprise that Raymond Reddington has enchanted the daughter of Elizabeth Keen.

And Red is completely and utterly _spellbound_ by her.

She watches them, stands back, ankles crossed and leaning against the wall. Absently rubbing at her scar, she watches them, almost feeling as if she is intruding, doesn’t belong in this room he built for Agnes, this sanctuary she was brought to when her mother disappeared, _died_. He organised this nursery when his vision had been painted black with grief, a thick poisonous tar that sluggishly slid through his bloodstream.

Imagining how he painstakingly chose each piece of furniture, with precision, with _care_ , during the nights when Tom wouldn’t let him see the baby, makes Liz wince. It’s as if she visualises Red sitting in the middle of the empty space, the night creeping in around him, fedora placed to his side as he dutifully scanned through paint samples. His eyes would have been heavy, drooping, aching for sleep, but instead Red would have bitten at his lip, _hard_ , shifted, and then chosen the perfect yellow to coat from floor to ceiling. And then he would have moved on to flooring.

_Anything_ to keep the nightmares at bay.

Contrary to popular belief, Elizabeth Keen is aware of the pain he suffered through.

It’s there in the way he holds himself, the slight slump to his shoulders, where he had once stood tall, proud. It’s there in the purple smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the sag in his cheeks, the weight loss. She can hear it in the tremble of his voice, steel over stone, gravelly and _tortured_. Hell, she can see it in Dembe, in the tension in his shoulders, in the weight of his gaze when it settles on Reddington, on _her_ , as if she is explosive, _dangerous_.

It’s when Red looks at her and all she can see is _agony_.

But Agnes, sweet Agnes, with the soft skin and gentle coos, she seems to be healing him.

This is only the second time he has come to see her, and though the visits have been few and far in-between, it is still noticeable the calm that blankets him, the soft sigh he releases when he gazes upon her sweet features, asleep or awake.

Liz _aches_ at the sight of it.

“You can pick her up, if you like,” Liz murmurs, and it causes him to startle, as if he forgot she was there, with them, in the room. The grateful smile he bestows on her as he scoops Agnes into his arms dims the unpleasant lurch her stomach had given.

Instantaneously, he begins to rock, a dance all parents know so well, as if he can’t help but sway the little girl to sleep, tuck her close and keep her safe.

It is mesmerising to watch, to know that Red, a man capable of the most heinous and horrific things, is able to lull a newborn to sleep. That he is calm and safety, protection and _love_. Agnes trusts him, does not wail or squirm the way she tends to when Tom is attempting to nurse her. The baby is settled, still, _happy_.

There is a truth there that Liz is not able to accept, ignores even as her stomach churns, Tom’s smile seemingly forced when he passes the little girl back to her mother.

For now, she is content to saviour these moments as they fleetingly come and go, to watch Red with her daughter and pretend as if there isn’t a gaping wound ripped raw each and every time Red glances at her.

Peace settles around them as Agnes’ gurgles quieten, turn to soft snores.

It is when Liz steps forward, just that bit _too_ close, the peace fractures and splinters. The muscles beneath his tailored suit _seize_ , tension flickering through his body at her proximity. Liz’s breath catches in her throat as he looks at her, and the small smile that graced his features as he’d gazed at the little girl cradled in his embrace, vanishes. There is a flicker of panic through his eyes, a flicker of _pain_ , and then they are shuttering, deadening, _cold_.

She can see it; she can see something dawning in his eyes, as if reality has come tumbling down upon him like the harsh chill of the sea, sweeping away the calm that had settled around him. Chaos has ruptured in the green of his irises, and Liz is hopeless to quell it.

“I should leave.”

His voice is rough, choked, as he turns away, smoothly making his way to the cot. Gently he lowers Agnes to the mattress, his hand cradled so softly against her precious skull. In these moments it is where he gathers himself, when he no longer has to meet her gaze.

And so when he rises, turns to her with an expression of nonchalance, it is with a polite smile and shuttered eyes.

It simply won’t do, this charade they are both playing at, this act that seemingly drags on and on and _wounds_ them. There are words battering at the back of her teeth, burning the tip of her tongue.

“I missed you.”

Tossed out into the open like that, his reaction is smoother than she had expected. His reflexes are almost animal like, the tilt of his head, the slight widening of his eyes. He bites at the inside of his lip, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Liz can feel the adrenaline trembling through her being, fingers tips tingling, insides quivering, because he hasn’t responded yet, his stare unwavering, unforgiving. It’s as if she is standing before him on Judgement Day. The silence is condemning.

And then,

“Goodbye Elizabeth.”

The door clicks closed like a gunshot and Liz feels as if she can’t breathe for _hours_ later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I haven't written anything in months. My muse has all but disappeared, so i'm starting small, hoping that i can spark some life back into my creativity. Basically i am pretending that the absolute Shit Show the Blacklist has been turned into never happened. I don't know when this story really takes place, but Agnes is around and Tom will be disposed of. Anywhoo, hope you enjoyed it!


	2. There's Blood on Your Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I missed you.”  
> The words fall clumsy,  
> and bloody from your,  
> split up, bit up lips and  
> you say it quietly; a secret  
> like the bruises that are  
> forming stories on your body,  
> and you want to thank him,  
> for keeping your heart drumming,  
> but you sink unconscious before you can."

Her nerves are singing, _screaming_ , muscles that are battered and bruised, bleed purple across the porcelain expanse of her skin. It is with every breath she takes her ribs howl, a whimper of pain trapped between clenched teeth.

It shouldn’t have happened, every nerve and muscle that had been drilled and tormented into strict regiment during her years at Quantico should have twisted her into action, sprung her away into safety. Adrenaline should have been thrumming through muscles that have been taut and tight for _years_ now, the day America’s most wanted strolled into her life, explosions and knife fights trailing in his wake only hours later.

Danger is a constant now.

But still, she had slipped, made a mistake, her mind not focused, and her movements sluggish. The assailant had taken her to the ground, fists hammering into her side, boots scraping against her shins as they wrestled on the unforgiving concrete, the fabric of her clothes catching and tearing. Her breath had been short, her eyes watering, as he heaved his weight onto his haunches, drew back his arm and landed a solid punch to Liz’s jaw, filling her mouth with blood, her vision shuddering with black.

Her ears still ringing, she heard Ressler’s furious shout, heard the scream of a bullet and the thud of its impact as it buried itself into the soft belly of the man still straddling her. His body lurched forward, weight collapsing onto already tormented ribs, wheezing the breath out of Liz as she attempted to wriggle free. Blood, warm and sticky, soaked into her clothing.

After that, once Ressler had tugged her to unsteady feet, whispering soft reassurances even as he held himself so awkwardly, his hand on her shoulder radiating uncertainty, she’d been ushered into an ambulance, checked over. The paramedics gave her the verdict of a concussion, two broken ribs.

They asked her if she had someone to look after her when she got home, sentenced her to bed rest.

She gritted her teeth and nodded her head, already imaging how difficult it would be to feed Agnes, tears stinging at the back of her eyes.

Attempting to return to the Post Office with Ressler had been futile. Her partner had dialled their Director as soon as she had struggled into the car. Cooper had ordered her to stay home for a week, or two, however long it took her battered body to heal, recover. And with her stony silence, Ressler had driven her home, a grim smile and a wave all he gave her as she made her way to the entrance of her apartment.

And so her partner is furious when he sees her the next day, the elevator doors clanking open to reveal her worn out frame and pale complexion. Naturally Liz is immediately on the defence, the pain that is currently riddling through sinew and flesh, wearing her patience mightily thin.

“I’m here to file the report, that’s it,” She snaps, and continues on, ignoring the way the other agents glance at her, at the hurt that flashes through the blue of Ressler’s eyes.

She is steadfast, determined, straightening her back as much as her ribs let her, as she makes her way to Cooper’s office. In and out, that is what she has planned, thankful that Aram had contacted her the night before, offering to babysit Agnes whilst she’s on the mend. He’d picked her up early in the morning.

Liz thinks that she may have a stiff drink or two when she gets home.

And that is when, through the murmuring and bustle of her fellow colleagues, she hears him. He is all rich baritones and confidence, bright laughter as he talks with Samar, hands gesturing wildly regaling another story, grin wide and eyes bright. Until he turns, spots her pathetic movements.

_Red_.

He’s facing her, fedora in place, beige suit bright in the darkness of the black site. The bottom of his lip is trapped between his teeth, the skin below his left eye jumping to life.

It is as if the world falls silent, it is almost deafening. Blazing green tracks her movements across the floor as she hurries onwards, refusing to acknowledge him or the lump in her throat, the ball of dread and anxiety that knots in her stomach, twisting until her shortness of breath has nothing to do with the two broken ribs.

Taking the stairs to Cooper’s office as quickly as she can, Liz ignores the way her fingers begin to tremble, jots it down to the exertion. It is not in any way connected to the fact that she hasn’t seen him since the night he fled her apartment after visiting Agnes.

_I missed you_.

The door almost bounces on its hinges as she wrenches it open. Cooper looks up from his desk with a startled expression and she manages a tight smile. The click behind her as the door shuts sounds like a gunshot.

And when she emerges, forty minutes later, Red is nowhere to be seen.

It is a long drive home, mind whirling, categorising every twitch his face had given, every flutter of his eyelashes. There is an ache rumbling through her, something deep and _soulful_ that has her chest empty and her mouth dry.

The feeling intensifies when there is no sleek sedan parked out the front of her complex. There is no figure cut in a three piece suit, no hulking body guard. He isn’t there to meet her frustration with a concerned frown, isn’t there to insist he check over her wounds himself, to sort through her kitchen tutting that there are no decent ingredients, but still managing to procure a soup that warms her belly and soul.

He isn’t there.

He hasn’t been for _months_.

She reaches for the bottle of scotch as soon as she steps through the front door. Relishes the burn the liquor leaves in its wake as it slides down her throat. Stares at her reflection in her apartment window, eyes lingering over the purple smudge blooming over half of her features, the bloody crevices etched into her lip, scabbed and oozing.

Taking another three swigs from the bottle dulls the pain, and another four finds her sitting on her couch, breathing deeply, dead eyes staring at the ceiling. The bottle dangles from between her fingers, inches from the floor. Her muscles feel as if they have melted into the sofa, warmth seeping into the bruises.

It is silent. No music. No baby. No traffic below. The day crawls into night.

So the knock at her door hours later has her flinching, bottle thudding to the floor in her fright. A brief hurricane whips through her mind. Aram would have called if he needed to drop Agnes home, Ressler will be sulking from their earlier confrontation and Samar rarely ever visits.

That leaves one.

It doesn’t make sense, the fury that swells within her as she rises unsteadily from the couch. Her muscles have grown tight from disuse, twinge in protest as she sways her way to the door, not willing to let her eyes glance at the empty bottle, not willing to admit that she lost control.

“Lizzie.”

He speaks her name quietly, firmly, as if he knows that her hand is hovering above the door knob, indecision sabotaging her movements, sluicing away her confidence. It ignites something within her.

“What?” She snarls as she yanks open the door, body blocking him from the view of her apartment. Her face is still throbbing, a mess.

There is no reply, just placid green eyes gazing back at her. They’re only inches apart; Liz can smell the damp that has followed him from the outside, the chill that clings to the smooth material of his suit.

Her teeth are gritted, finger tips white as they cling to the door, keeping her steady as the alcohol runs rampant through her bloodstream. There is no doubt that he could have missed the stench of scotch that lingers around her.

A stillness settles between them, an impasse.

And then he has raised his hand, fingertips ghosting along her cheekbone, feather-light. They trace along the smudge of purple, tucking stray hairs behind her ear as his other hand reaches forwards, fingers looping around the delicate skin of her wrist. Liz melts, feels her body sag with exhaustion, the anger dispersing into the air surrounding her.

She is so _tired_ , so bone achingly exhausted of fighting him at every turn.

Stepping aside, he follows her flawlessly into her apartment, akin to the movement of a waltz, only a breath between them.

There are no words spoken into the silence, nothing. Electricity is humming through the air, crackling and sparking. Liz cannot bring herself to meet his gaze once more, feels her chest tighten with nerves, eyes the empty scotch bottle and feels its contents roiling within her.

“Lizzie,” he rumbles, “this recklessness needs to stop.”

It has happened all too often now, these scrapes and bruises that blossom on her body every other week. A scabbing cut across her ribcage where a knife strayed a hair too close, a swollen ankle from a pursuit only a week ago having now _finally_ died down, grazes littering knees and elbows, fingernails ripped and torn.

He sounds disappointed, concerned, and her heart _aches_ with the weight of it. After everything, after the lies and the _deceit_ , after the months and months of anguish and sorrow, he now stands before her, worry etched into his brow, anxiety bleeding into the soft meadow of his irises.

She can pinpoint the moment he realises there are tears welling within her eyes, see’s the breath exhale from between his parted lips as he closes the distance between them and tugs her into his arms, presses his cheek to her temple.

Small whimpers of despair escape between her clenched teeth, warm tears spilling down her cheeks. It seems as if he is clinging to her as much as she clings to him, her fingers knotted into his suit. He is whispering to her in hushed tones, but she can’t hear past the thundering of her wild heart. Beads of blood bloom on her lips, the scabs splitting as she muffles the sobs that threaten to build and spill forth like the ocean relentlessly pounds sandy shores.

Dimly she is aware that he has manoeuvred them onto her couch, that he is carding his fingers through the tangle of her hair, his other palm brushing over the curve of her back, between her shoulder blades. With her forehead pressed to his shoulder, she loses track of how long they rest there, only aware of how heavy her limbs grow, how she sinks further and further into his embrace.

“I missed you,” she whispers, only certain that he has heard her when he falls completely still.

 

And yet there is still so much she wishes to say, wants to speak into the crease of his neck that she is thankful for his presence, that he alone sets her body alight with life, and calms the ferocious storm that swirls within her.

She sinks into sleep before she gathers the courage, the words dying on the tip of her tongue.

And in the morning, she wakes on her couch, a blanket wrapped around her and no sign that Raymond Reddington had ever graced her apartment.


	3. There's A Price to be Paid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I missed you.”  
> It comes out in a wet gasp  
> because panic is the venomous  
> snake that has bitten you and you’ve  
> got poison in your veins and he’s got  
> his hands clasping your wrists. He’s  
> telling you to breathe and slowly your  
> shoulders stop shaking like electric wires  
> in a thunderstorm. You wonder if he feels  
> your tired, thankful smile on his neck?”

The soft drone of the television filters through the quiet, the sickly blue light illuminating the apartment, slicing through the darkness of night and bathing the ghostly figure, curled on the couch as it is, in a ghastly white.

Eyes dead, she stares ahead, far away from this time and place, nowhere in particular, but drowning in white noise, static. There is an emptiness that clings to her, body and soul, leaves her feeling weak, _heavy_ , despair anchoring her to the world, it’s tendrils wrapped around her ribcage, pressing down on the delicate skin of her neck.

It has been hours since she has moved.

A day since she has eaten.

And a month since she last heard from him.

Her wounds had completely healed now, her ribs relinquishing their ache weeks ago, bruises turning purple, green, yellow, and then fading away, grazes weeping, scabbing, _itching_ , until they remained as small red blemishes.

She had not attempted to contact him since that morning where she awoke alone, brimming with remorse, pressing her cheek into the sofa and inhaling the scent he’d left behind, stomach cringing with how pathetic it made her feel, tears stinging beneath her eyelids.

Silence had reigned through the rest of that week, as her body stitched itself back together Liz well and truly succumbed to isolation, the only interaction she allowed herself was contacting Aram, checking up on Agnes. It was an easy thing to achieve, this loneliness she submerged herself in, with Sam gone, there really was no one left for her to initiate contact with. Tom had fled the country months earlier, abandoned his identity, and his daughter.

And then, of course, there was Red.

He had all but disappeared, and when she finally returned to the Post Office, Ressler confirmed her suspicions; no one had heard from Reddington in weeks.

And with that, a crushing weight that Liz could feel bleeding down from her chest to her toes, they fell into stagnancy, attempting to crack cold cases, biding time until he re-emerged from the Underworld.

It had happened before, copious times when Red’s business dragged him to the other side of the world, the Task Force had grown used to these breaks, but something unsettling blanketed the building, had taken residency in Liz’s gut. Her co-workers’ gazes lingered on her just that little bit too long, and if she paid enough attention, her profiling training so ingrained into her being, she’d notice that as they spoke to her, if they _dared_ to mention Reddington, they were editing their sentences as their words dribbled forth. It left her unnerved, as if they knew of something that she didn’t, had information she was not privy to, as if they could end her suffering one way or another, but were certain it would cause further agony.

And so, the day he called, the machine that was the Task Force sputtered to life, cogs whirling, the day that the ever attentive agents absorbed every morsel tossed their way about the latest Blacklister, he had contacted them on Aram’s phone.

_I speak only with Elizabeth Keen._

When the call ends, when Aram nervously clasps his phone in his sweaty palms and finishes regaling the information Reddington had divulged, the silence that reigns is loaded. Ressler attempts to cover the awkwardness, clears his throat, develops a plan for how best to deal with their latest criminal, but Liz can see the way his eyes keep straying to her, the way they are so filled with pity.

She had escaped the very second it seemed reasonable, strode determinedly to the bathroom, blinking back tears until she was safe inside the cubicle. Breath short, bracing herself against the wall, she sobbed into her hand, screamed silently as her body trembled with grief, working herself into such a state that she feared she’d find herself dropped to her knees and retching into the toilet.

After that, she couldn’t possibly go out and face her colleagues, and no one questioned or contacted her when she left. Aram had dropped by her apartment in the afternoon, had let himself in, gathered Agnes’s things and left with the little girl silently, as Liz had lay upon the sofa.

And from then onwards she had not moved.

Until her phone buzzed along the coffee table, startling her, bringing her gaze back from the abyss, to land on the device as it violently rumbled across the rough timber.

It kindles in her chest every time she receives a notification, this hope. And attempt to smother it she does, _every single time_ , suffocates it with her forceful doubt, because it is never him, _never_. Over and over again she tells herself, _implores_ to her subconscious that it isn’t him, it isn’t him, _it isn’t him._

But the embers, they spread, they glow and glow until life is breathed into them and a fire is roaring within her, and there are sparks within the deadened ice of her eyes, as her fingertips graze her phone, clasp around the cool screen as it alights.

And it is almost always Aram, sending her a photo of Agnes as he puts her to sleep, or it’s Ressler with an update on a case, or her local Chinese notifying her of a special.

This time it is no different.

Tears sting at her eyes as she stares down at Agnes’ peaceful little face, her cheeks chubby and rosy, delicate fingers curled just below her chin where she clutches her plush puppy dog. Gazing at Agnes, her sweet innocent daughter, guilt leeks through Liz, makes her feel as if her tongue is swollen, that she could not possibly swallow past it less she risk choking on it with her grief and remorse.

This has gone on long enough.

It needs to _stop._

It’s all too much.

She heaves her body from the couch, scrambles over to the kitchen bench and snatches at her car keys, before thrusting the front door open and hurrying down to her vehicle, movements jagged. There is an ache in her chest that tightens with every breath, an ache that will offer no relief.

It may have been one of the most dangerous drives of her life, she wouldn’t be aware if it was. Her vision had blurred with her tears, the traffic lights smudged and _so bright_. The only sound she was aware of was the grinding of her teeth, the tightness in her jaw grating bone against bone.

She doesn’t even consider where she is going, just drives and drives, until she is turning into an upmarket suburban street, and this feels _right_ , that he would be here, in this safe house. There is something tugging at her, pulling her to this place and she blindly follows.

Getting out of the car she doesn’t remember, only recalls that the wind whipped around her, tangling at her hair, clawing at her clothes with its brisk chill as she all but stumbled to the front door. It is akin to the absolute _hurricane_ that is tearing at her insides, her skin seemingly crawling away from her, and yet so _tight_ , claustrophobic. She briefly considers that she may be splitting at the seams, it is the only coherent thought she seems capable of, and not a very sane one at that.

She doesn’t know if it’s raining or just tears carving rivers into her cheeks, can feel nothing but sheer and unadulterated panic. There are torrents of it flowing through her veins, adrenaline building and building and _building_ , until it feels as if there is a crazed scream lodged at the back of her throat, something savage and desperate that needs to tear free from the confines of her broken and miserable body.

With shaking, trembling fingers, she wraps at the wooden door, the knocks sounding like thunderclaps to her over sensitised body. She can’t find it within herself to stop, knuckles wrapping against the timber again and again and again, it occurs to her that she should stop, that the skin around the delicate bones of her hands is beginning to split, that soon blood could be smeared over the perfect polished jarrah.

It is then that the door opens, that warm light floods over her terror riddled body.

She stands before Raymond Reddington amid a full blown panic attack, the likes of which she has never suffered through before.

He is gazing at her, and if she hadn’t been grasping at sanity, if she had been able to focus on anything other than heaving oxygen into her deprived lungs she may have found it amusing that she has _stopped_ the Concierge of Crime, has left him frozen in shock.

But no, instead Liz crumbles, looses all semblance of control because Red is gazing at her and _he_ looks terrified, muscles rigid with tension, as if he is too afraid to move, in case he spooks her, sends her down a spiral she feels she may never recover from.

“Lizzie,” he croaks.

And her name, spoken with his broken, _aching_ voice, it undoes her, pulls at the last thread that stitched her together, kept her in one morbidly miserable piece.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, the words spilling from her in a wheeze, because she can’t _breathe_ , her chest rising and falling so rapidly she can barely keep up. “Red, I’m so _sorry._ ”

Her hands have found their way into her hair, are pulling savagely at the inky tresses as she frantically searches for control, believes that the pain may just be enough to drag her back to the present. She can’t meet his eyes, looks anywhere but at him, feeling wild and uncontained. Words are still spewing forth from between her lips, and if her hearing wasn’t muted by the blood pounding, rushing, through her body, she may have been aware that she is practically screaming. She may have been aware that deeper into the house Dembe is staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, fingertips tingling with adrenaline as he wakes from his slumber, sadness crawling into his chest at her and Raymond’s predicament.

“I didn’t,” she cries, gasps, “I didn’t _mean_ to hurt you. I was so lost. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. _Forgive me._ ”

And then he is reaching for her, his movements almost aggressive as he grabs at her wrists, grip firm and tight, pinching at the skin as he yanks her hands away from her tangled nest of hair. She struggles against him, writhes like a snake, and he is saying her name, over and over, each time he sounding just that little bit more desperate.

He has pulled them closer, so close that her arms are now folded and he’s clutching her hands to his chest. She can feel the racing thrum of his heart, pinpoints it beneath her sweating palms. His breath is ghosting across her face, a puff of warmth against the iciness of her skin, though she feels as if she is aflame, her hairs standing on end as the adrenaline works its way through her body.

“Lizzie, you need to breathe,” he rumbles to her, lips now pressed against her ear as he fully pulls her into his embrace, “Sweetheart, it’s okay. You just need to breathe.”

She sinks into him, every ounce of energy rinsed from her body as the adrenaline, ebbs and ebbs, all but disappears. It seems as if there is nothing but a shell of her left now, her bones are aching, lips chapped and dry, eyes stinging something fierce.

Pressing her face into his neck, she feels the kiss he presses to her temple, feels the way his fingers release her wrists to then splay and rest on her shoulder blade and lower back. A smile, though small and ginger, tugs at her lips and she is certain that he can feel it against the soft flesh of his throat.

“I missed you,” she whispers, throat dry.

When he pulls away from her, pulls back and with the simple movement sends her heart plummeting, she looks up to meet his eyes. That he could disappear again, leave her in a lurch, it sends a tremor through her body. A part of her believes that if he is to reject her once more, it may splinter her into something she doesn’t believe she could ever recover from.

But then, _then_ , he is pressing his forehead to hers and she spots the glint of a tear as it glides down his cheek. His hand glides up her back, nestles at the base of her neck and Liz wants to whimper with relief. Crooked teeth bite at the inside of his lip, chew and chew over the words he wishes to utter.

“Lizzie, I think you should come inside,” he says softly, brokenly.

And she agrees with him, nods her head pressed as it is against his own, but cannot bring herself to move, does not want to break the moment they have found themselves in, the peace amongst the storm that had raged all around them.

He slips his fingers into her loose grasp after a long moment, and guides her inside, thumb rubbing soothing circles against her still clammy skin.

Without question or hesitation, she follows him.


End file.
